Top 5 Underheralded, Underappreciated Clash master oeuvres

"Pressure Drop", Black Market Clash



Cover versions are indelibly etched near the top elechons in the Clash musical lexicon ("I Fought The Law", "Police On My Back"); reggae of course features prominently as well (too many to mention); for that matter, "Police and Thieves" is a reggae cover that is often featured among top Clash song lists.  From where I sit however I'd take their rollicking take on the Toots and the Maytals classic any day.  Covers are a tricky business, naturally:  optimally one walks a fine line between roboticallly reproducing the original (why bother) and perverting the original into something uncomfortably unfamiliar, cringeworthy, or both.  The band imbues this classic with just the right measure of infectious abandon without contorting the original beyond recognition.






"Up in Heaven", Corner Soul and Let's Go Crazy, Sandinista



About midway through the sprawling multicultural epic, albeit surely the most polarizing of all Clash albums, lies this one-two-three knockout punch that ranks among the band's most brightly shining moments.  After the merciful fadeout of Lightning Strikes, a catchy four second riff masquerading as a 5 minute funk workout, intones the opening organ of Up in Heaven, one of Mick Jones' criminally overlooked Clash masterpieces.  Where Joe Strummer's ideological fervor often drove the bus through the band's trademark high octane manifestos, sometimes dangerously bordering on the bully pulpit, Jones was always more subtle, more nuanced in his approach to social justice, his signature compositions weaving character portrayals of the everyman struggling to deal with everyday challenges (ie the oft-celebrated "Lost in the Supermarket") rather than polemic bannerwaving.   (Of course, there's always an exception to every rule, witness Strummer's stunningly brilliant "Broadway" on this very album, which easily could have made this list, dripping in pathos as it evokes rain-soaked down and out New York street folks...). In my view nowhere is Jones' essence more evident than in "Up in Heaven", a pleasantly uptempo melody betrayed by a heartwrenching lyrical glimpse into the plight of London's underclass:           



And whatcha gonna do when the darkness surrounds?
You can piss in the lifts which have broken down

You can watch from the debris the last bedroom light
We’re invisible here just past midnight








After the final drums clatter and fade away into that darkness we are startled awake by Strummer's invocation at the outset of Corner Soul.  Loosely based on Enoch Powell's famous River of Blood speech (learn more about it here:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rivers_of_Blood_speech : newsflash - apparently xenophobia is nothing new!, and certainly not limited to ultraconservatie militias pacing the Arizona border...), musically Corner Soul defies easy music categorization.  Guitar, bass and drum chug away in an understated reggae vibe, but keyboard effects and ethereal choral vocals give the music a hypnotic depth.  But Strummer's  vocals are the centerpiece of this gem, conjuring up the sceptre of impending violence without rooting it in the historical grounding of any particular set of facts.  Simply riveting, spinetingling listening.







The third track in this sequence isn't the slightest bit opaque, nuanced, or subtle:  it's the Clash at their effervescent, pedal to the metal, celebratory best.  "Let's Go Crazy" is the "Party Rock Anthem" of the Clash anthology if you will - an unbridled celebration of Carnival's ebulllience, with a few touches of Strummer's wryly cynical views of law enforcement, the drug trade, and the like thrown in for comic relief.  The band dabbled in just about every musical genre imaginable on those three discs, sometimes more effectively than others for sure, and this calypso barnburner replete with steel drums, police whistles and streetcorner preachers positively captures the exuberance of this cultural phenomenon. 


  (i LOVE this viewer-created video!)




"Sean Flynn", Combat Rock



"You Know He Heard The Drums Of War."

Such is the haunting refrain that infuses this sinewy, softspoken track  hidden deep on side two of Combat Rock, perhaps the second most polarizing of all Clash releases.  While the karaoke-friendly power chords of "Should I Stay or Should I Go" and the playful blues bar riffs of "Rock the Casbah" (drummer Topper Headon's finest moment?) remain permanently ingrained in top 40 rotation to this day, having rocketed the band's final release to commercial superstardom, Sean Flynn, along with the more widely acclaimed Straight to Hell and Ghetto Defendant, much more effectively capture the band's restless, experimental essence at the sunset of its glory.  No verse, no chorus, no real structure at all; just Jones' undulating, understated riffs punctuated by darting saxaphones and slowly galloping Asianesque percussion, with Strummer intoning with typical passion about the plight of the actor-turned-photojournalist son of the dashing Errol Flynn.  It doesn't characterize his disappearance and presumed tortured death at the hands of Khmer Rouge in anything resembling any sort of linear cohesion so much as summon his spirit cosmically.  It's virtually unfathomble that it was produced by the same quartet that just a few years before was blurting out hyperkinetic, three chord, twominute blasts about rude boys, hateful record company execs,  and condoms, but such was the evolution of the greatest band that ever mattered.  

 --Rhythm Slayer

The Bloody Hollies - Yours Until the Bitter End

 

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

I sat uncomfortably in the confessional.  Beyond the wood and iron door, night fell about the cathedral.  No parishioners walked the pews.  A lone janitor mopped the floors in silent circles.  Candles burned in a solemn stare of remorse as the crucified form of Jesus stared down at me.  A mix of mercy and condemnation in his eyes.

I'm not Catholic, but my transgression was so great I had no other choice. To save my music-loving soul, I needed confession.

"Yes, my son," the priest's disembodied voice returned.  "Tell me your sin."

I was uncomfortable not being able to look into the eyes of my redeemer.  Unable to judge the response in his pupils as I opened up my soul and let my sins pour out.  I wanted to gauge the look of shock and horror in his gaze as I spoke.  As if it would give me a hint as to the penance I faced.  But no.  Just a gated wall separated us.  I could see his darkened, silhouetted form, like an angry apparition.  My judge.  My jury.

"I have committed the cardinal sin of a music writer," I began, my voice catching in my throat. "I have prejudged a band.  Condemned them before I even listened to them."

I heard the priest swallow hard.  "Go on."

"The band is The Bloody Hollies and for reasons I can't quite understand, I wanted to hate them.  I'd heard so much about them, I wanted to dismiss them.  I wanted to stand tall on my perch of righteous musical prejudice and reign down my disgust upon them.  I wanted it so much, I almost could taste my indignation.  I nearly deleted the album before I'd even heard it."

"I see.  But instead, you played it?"

"Yes, I did. God, yes I did!  And suddenly all my preconceived notions were flung out the door.  The world made new sense to me.  Here I thought The Bloody Hollies was another bunch of preening pretenders, another in the long line of bandwagon-jumpers following the trail set by the White Stripes.  Poseurs with a cool name, mining the same bluesy-punk vein.   Fad-flipping pop-punk wannabes with no real balls or chops."

"And they weren't?"

"Hell, no!" (maybe I shouldn't have said that to the priest). "I'm here today to tell you that The Bloody Hollies are the real deal.  Killer rock n roll!  Pure punk thrash and dirt mixed with tainted garage griminess and unadulterated rock passion.  And there's more than that.  These kids know how to play.  Sure the songs might be simple, but they're moved along with fine chops and a drummer that pounds the skins harder than I'd get pounded in the UFC ring.

"But it doesn't stop there.  Mixed in with their rough and raw garage punk are influences of pure classic rock.  Riff that the Kinks would love.  And they got massive pop smarts, and I don't mean Blink 182 or Green Day pop-punk.  Real punk energy with killer choruses, retro-bluesy swagger, and hooks fucking galore driving their punk ditties.  (perhaps I shouldn't have said fuck either.) This is one of my favorite albums of the year."

The priest said nothing.  I could hear his breathing.

"I'm serious father.  You gotta hear some of these killer cuts like "So Grey So Green."  They rage.   I mean they positively rage!  And the vocals!  Oh, my God, don't get me started on the vocals.  This is everything that I love in punkified rock.  Passion. Pure passion baby. The singer strains and reaches and lets his vocal chords groan and screech as he blasts it out.  I can't get enough of it!"

I heard the priest's breathing hasten.  His lips started smacking.  I knew he could feel the passion of The Bloody Hollies music just from my words.  I yanked the mp3 boombox out of my backpack and hit play.  "Dead Letter," raged out, its organ and marching drum intro filling the cathedral.  I saw the janitor drop his mop and look my way.  Suddenly the guitar part kicked in, charging and terrorizing like the best of the Replacements.  Then the song motored into that stuttering breakdown before the chorus.  Drums pounding like revelation.  Bass attacking like the parting of the Red Sea.   I felt the whole confessional shudder under the might of those 3-chord riffs. The priest was swept up in the passion.  I could see his silhouette bouncing in the chanber next to mine.

"Dirty Sex" blasted out next, it's simple, muted southern rock guitar intro exploding into a punkified fury of adrenaline and teenage hormones.   Like the Black Crowes amped up on a case of Red Bull after a fist-fight with the Stooges.

"And then I learned that this was their 5th album.  And still they bring this much passion to their music.  And the surprises, like the use of a violin on one song.  A slide guitar on another.  I can't stop listening . . . "

But I never finished.  The shuddering of the confessional heightened until the walls started to shake apart.  As The Bloody Hollies ripped into the nightmare-terror-cum-prog-epic punk adventure of "Good Night Sleep Tight" the whole thing fell apart.  The confessional walls shattered to the ground. The ceiling collapsed around me.  And there, standing amid the rubble was the priest.  Or pogoing amid the rubble would be a better way to describe it.  His collar ripped off, the priest leaped onto the heap of lumber and iron, his air guitar blaring away with the rumbling riff as the song transformed into the garage-metal terror of "I Dream of Bees."

The priest reached into my backpack and ripped out my vinyl copy of Yours Until the End. (yes, the download was so good I had to run out and buy the vinyl.   I suggest you do the same.)  The priest stood there, staring at my album, holding it tightly in his hands, preciously, as if it was a lost artifact.  When The Bloody Hollies dropped into a vague Clash-like, reggae-infused punk assault of "Leave that Woman Alone" the priest let out a wallop of a primal yell, ripped the sleeves off his white button-down shirt, whipped his hair into a quick Mohawk, and jumped from the rubble and ran off into the night.

Taking my vinyl Yours Until the Bitter End with him.

I'm still trying to track him down.

--Racer

The Business - Saturdays Heroes

Oi! Oi! Oi!

With a roster that includes such Boston street punk bands as The Dropkick Murphys and Streetdogs, it only seems fitting that Taang! should have The Business kicking around their digs also.  So as we wind up our weeklong look into the depths of the Taang! roster, it's time to feed Saturdays Heroes into the player, grab a pint, round up the mates, and head out looking for trouble.

For those who don't know, The Business first raised hell on the streets of South London way back in 1979. With a career that has gone on to span 30 years, these streetwise punkers never slowed down and this 1996 release finds the blokes in fine form.  Sweat-soaked, beer stained, pint-in-the-air scream-along anthems is what The Business specializes in and you'll find more than your requisite handful here.  And just as importantly, the band show no signs of slowing down as they moved from young upstarts to elder statemens of working-class punk.  It's no wonder bands like The Dropkick Murphys look toward The Business as inspiration.

One look at the photos and you'd be hard pressed to predict what mayhem is to follow in the grooves of the disc.  Singer Mickey Fitz possesses a truly guttural set of vocal chords that spits out socially conscious rebellions with a heavy-handed cockney accent.  And all that venom is lost behind the more-than-boyish cherub of a face, polo shirt, and arms that look like they couldn't threaten a girl scout.  Likewise, Guitarist Steve whale, bassist/chief songwriter Mark Brennan, and drummer Mick Fairbarn each play with spit-soaked abandon but look like they're crawling off the cover of preppie Gentlemen's Quarterly not ready for a hardcore frenzy.

Don't let looks deceive you.

Like that kid in school who looked so calm and shy but really ran a meth lab in his basement, the gents of The Business may not focus so much on their image.  But they sure do on their music.  "Spanish Jails" kicks this frenzy off in high-tension velocity.  A true fist-pounder in the classic style of some of the best of the Clash's early punk.  Guitars buzz and chug and churn.  The bass thuds and punishes and the skins get pounded harder than a pool hustler trying to cheat the Hell's Angels.   You gotta visualize a pub for this one.  Full of working class stiffs, rowdy-ing up for a football match or a gang fight.  Fists are pumping.  Ale is sailing through the air.  Testosterone is rising.  It's good.  It's all good.

But the fist-pumping street punk doesn't stop there.  "All Out Tonight" "Never Be Taken" and Shout it Out" are all rousing anthems of working class discontent and fury.   Rocking, riffing hardcore with sneer, anger, and cynicism.  Again, forget the boys appearance.  One listen to the soaring chorus of "All Out Tonight"  and I know I wouldn't ever want to get on these cats bad side.  "You're all just hypocrites/got money on your minds/I know your name and I know your game."  This is a call to class warfare of the nth degree and you better believe that each of the Oi! punks listening will be packing brass knuckles, chains, and tire irons.  Stay off the streets when the Business comes to town.

"Never Be Taken" is chugging, hardcore riffery at its finest, motoring along like some cockey Ramones outtake and Sham 69 venom.  "Hold your heads up high" Fitz wails above the dissonant buzzsaw guitar riffs.  With it's message of pride it's clear that with The Business, the working class battles on with dignity, intelligence, anger and wit.  Inspirational in it's intent and execution.  If I'd been a working class yob in London, this song would've rallied me to storm the palace.

In addition to the original album, licensed from Link Music, Taang! throws 5 bonus cuts into the mix including the revved up cockney gang fight "Hurry Up Harry", the moderately sedate, melodic neighborhood observation of "Get Out of My House", the gunfight in a bottle "Outlaw" and the original version of "All Out Tonight."  Plenty of Oi! for your money.

While never as popular as the Sex Pistols, the Clash, or Sham 69, The Business do what they do amazingly well and just may be one of the most overlooked punk bands of the Oi! movement.

--Racer

Buy here: Saturday's Heroes
Buy here live: Saturdays Heroes (Live And Loud)

The Rakehells - Please Yourself or the Devil in the Flesh

Alas, pity the life of a rake.

“And so Lord Penfold, I simply must tell you…”
“Apologies my lady, but there is someone I absolutely have to speak to this very minute.”
“But you promised that you would listen to my story.”
“And so I shall my dear, so I shall.  But for now I must beg your forgiveness, for we must part ways though it rends my heart to be away from you for a mere moment.”
“Alright Lord Penfold.  If you must go I understa…”

The last bit of dialogue was lost to me as I had already begun my hasty retreat from the young lady whom up until quite recently had been particularly engaging.  Unfortunately, she had transitioned into what I commonly refer to as a ‘clingy’ state.  Not that I blame her at all.  I know how tremendously attractive I am to women and how quickly they become enamored with me.  At least I did not have to resort to a lie to extricate myself from this latest conversation.  I really did need to speak with King Charles about my recent run of bad luck at the tables and track.  Surely he would understand that my luck could only get better, and my mounting debt would shortly be reduced if not eliminated.  But before I could walk over to King Charles I spotted someone else I wished to speak with even more at the bar.  Standing with a drink in his hand and wearing an obscene getup was the Earl of Rochester.

“Lord Rochester, what on earth happened to your clothes?”
“Ah, Lord Penfold.  Good to see you.  This is the latest fashion.  Do you like it?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure what to make of it.  You appear to have cut off all of the hair from your wig except for a single line down the middle which you have spiked with some sort of gel.  And your normally fine clothing has been torn in several areas and is only held together with numerous safety pins.  Has some devil possessed you sir?”
“No, no Penfold.  A new band called The Rakehells has come under my patronage.  They inspired this change in my appearance.  Come, they’re playing in the auditorium down the hall.  You must hear them play!”
“Fine, but I’m bringing a bottle to keep us company.”

To put it simply, this is punk rock how I often want punk rock to sound.  Pay homage to the greats that came before you, but go about your business with an undeniable swagger and style you can claim as your own.  The Rakehells never let up from the first note of their debut album, Please Yourself or the Devil in the Flesh, all the way through to the moment you hear the laser eye of your CD player readjusting itself after reaching the end of the disc.  Let’s put this bad boy under the microscope to better learn its ways.

As stated before The Rakehells play what I would refer to as punk rock.  I realize that that is quite the blanket statement considering the extraordinarily varied acts which all describe themselves with the same moniker.  Perhaps it will be simpler to describe the band’s sound by explaining what they are not.  Although I would definitely describe the guitar tones as muscular, the band is certainly not a hardcore group.  Yes the vocals are all sung, not screamed or yelled, but the band fails to show any sign of the sappiness found in a lot of commercial pop punk.  While the song tempos do fluctuate, they typically reside in the realm of fast and never fall into slow territory a la a lot of post punk.  Okay, I’m tired of this exercise.  In the end I ask myself who needs labels when the music is great?  Answer: nobody.

“Ready, Fire, Aim” begins the album and acts a foretelling of things to come.  Remember I spoke earlier about the band having a swagger about them.  Well rest assured it’s on full display from the word go, and it oozes out of your speakers in an untamable flow.  The band reeks of confidence in the music they are producing, and it is infectious.  Personal highlights for me are “Souls for Sale”, “Mode of the Moment”, and “Meat on a Stick”.  I find that I draw more enjoyment from these songs thanks solely to their rip-snorting, monolithic guitar riffs and insanely propulsive energy.  But limiting yourself to just these three songs would be worse than criminal in light of the rest of the album.  If you’re a fan of The Clash then you will fall head over heels for songs like “Charles Marlay”, “Sexton Blake”, and “Capital”.  I’m not suggesting that these are duplicates of Clash songs, just that sonically many obvious parallels can be drawn between the two bands while listening.  Also if like me you are a fan of X, then you definitely need to hear the song “Lost Weekend”.  On this song especially the listener can hear the clear influence of John Doe’s singing style and tone on the lead singer from The Rakehells.  Besides that, the musical dissonance throughout much of that song is endlessly intriguing!

Fellow Waveriders, if you are looking for something new and interesting in the world of punk or just rock n’ roll in general you need look no further than The Rakehells.  I’ve been listening to this album for a little while now and I personally vouch for its authentic entertainment value.  The fact that this is the very first release from this band is somewhat frightening.  I don’t want to think about what will happen to my listening habits down the line if this band refines its formula and releases more killer albums.  Apology letters will have to be sent to my other favorite acts since The Rakehells will occupy all of my listening time.  Scary!

“So Lord Penfold, what do you think of the band?”
“Lord Rochester, I’m stunned!  They’re fantastic!”
“I’m glad you feel that way Penfold.  If you had not liked them, I might not have told you that the young lady you were wooing earlier appears to be looking for you.  She seems rather smitten with you, you villain.”
“Ah hah, that is most unfortunate.  For now I must leave this fine ball, and all because of my animal magnetism.  I tell you John, I’m cursed.”

-- Penfold

Buy here mp3: Please Yourself; Or the Devil in the Flesh 

Static People - Propaganda EP

In my teens I was kind of rebelIious.  I had a general disgust with the status quo (guess that hasn’t changed much) and was drawn to like-minded individuals and music that could give voice to my angst, such as Patti Smith.

I first saw Patti Smith in 1971 when she was reciting poetry in a small Venice Beach coffeehouse.  She railed against everything - the government, people, life.  A few years later she formed the Patti Smith Group and churned out some of the finest punk rock of the mid-70’s.  Her 1975 album “Horses,” that commences with Smith’s scream “Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine,” is still one of my favorites.

Static People released its first EP (which it calls on its MySpace page “Propaganda”) this April and it recaptures the definitive punk style of the mid-70’s Patti Smith Group.  The band consists of bassist Daedalus Howell, vocalist Dmitra Smith, drummer Mundo Murguia and guitarist Pascal Faivre. Static People is produced by Jason Carmer, who has also produced such notables as The Donnas, Third Eye Blind and Run DMC. The band members hail from wine country (or should that be “whine country”), Sonoma, California.  They write all of their own material and consider their influences to be the usual punk suspects - Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Clash, The Pixies, Sex Pistols, Radiohead, Bauhaus, etc. Although they fail to attribute their sound to Patti Smith,  you just have to listen once to Dmitra Smith to know that Patti Smith is truly the progenitor of Static People’s sound. (When I heard her I immediately thought the two Smiths must be related.  I haven’t found any information that confirms or refutes my conjecture.)   Even the band’s Facebook page espouses the anti-establishment anarchic position found in Patti Smith’s poems.  It states that one of their influences is “general disgust of government.”

The EP consists of five punk rants - “Save The Worst,” a pounding damnation of the “Save the World” evangelists that have gone before the present generation; “American Robot Mother,” a stab at the homogenous and consumptive nature of American society;  “Just Sink Down,” a driving tome about allowing oneself to devolve into the depths of darkness, despair and death; “Carrier,” an odd, slow, punk waltz poem about conquest, euphoria and relationship power struggles; and “You Know It’s There,” a highly processed, echo-laden, electronic homage about trust in knowledge rather than perception.  Each track has Dmitra Smith’s voice front and center, full of the same angst and derision that propelled Patti Smith to stardom.

You can catch Static People at gigs throughout the Bay Area and occasionally playing live on 87.9 FM,  San Francisco’s Pirate Cat Radio.  A video is in the works and should be released this December. If you are disgusted with the world as it is, and are looking for a safe outlet to scream about it, this may be your band.     

- Old School

Big Audio Dynamite – This is Big Audio Dynamite Legacy Edition

“It was still punk rock.”

That’s the way Don Letts, the dreadlocked documentary film-maker described his time with Mick Jones in the post-Clash ensemble, Big Audio Dynamite.

And it was punk.  Maybe not punk in the storm-the-Hammersmith Palais- variety of early Clash, but punk in and of itself.  If you define punk as going against the grain, striking out with rebel vision against the status quo, breaking new ground, being an outsider to the common theme, then there’s no doubt This is Big Audio Dynamite, was punk.  And not just punk, but one of rock’s great lost albums.

After getting kicked out of the Clash for being “ideologically unsound” Jones withdrew to West London and regrouped.  Letts pulled him out of his shell and the work on BAD began.  While Strummer put together an almost-Clash to cut the crap, Jones set about actually making some ground-breaking music.  Sampling was unheard of then, and armed with one of the first Akai sampling machines, Letts watched endless hours of television and movies, pillaging the perfect samples. 

Jones, meanwhile, set out to write the songs, building upon the more melodic streak he’d already established with The Clash.  Jones combined nacent hip hop, techno, reggae, dub, rock, and, yes, punk rock into a cleverly crafted amalgamation of sounds, effects, and melodies. 

And the album worked.  While Strummer was floundering and the Clash sinking without a wimper, Big Audio Dynamite became the rage.  Their sound was modern and fresh and unlike anything else out there.  “The Bottom Line,” the first single, was a smart and snappy reworking of Grandmaster and Melle Mel’s “White Lines (Don’t Do It)” with big, punky guitars, punchy beats and a chorus that buried itself into your head.  “E=Mc2” is a masterwork of pop, punch, and intelligence, complete with Clash-style vocal harmonies.   “Sony” is a tongue-in-cheek, stick it to the corporate boss declaration, showing that Jones hadn’t lost any of his punk sensibilities.   While “Stone Thames” showed Jones still had his finger on the social pulse, being one of the first songs written about the then-new AIDS epidemic.

Time has aged the album well.  The production holds up, the ideas still sound fresh, the beats still propulsive.  Add to that an entire second disc of remixes, extended versions, dub cuts, alternate versions, and non-album cuts, and this Legacy Edition is essential. 

--Racer


Buy here: This Is Big Audio Dynamite (2 CD Legacy Edition)